


When He Was His

by Rosawyn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Real World, Break Up, Cell Phones, Depression, Domestic Violence, First Impressions, First Meetings, Groping, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Moving In Together, Nicknames, POV Brock Rumlow, Rough Kissing, Star Trek References, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosawyn/pseuds/Rosawyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock meets a guy in a bar.  It's basically a train wreck from that point on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When He Was His

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote (or more accurately drafted) this before I even started [This Wasn't Ever Going to be Some Epic Love Story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3125663), and the two stories were basically written (or at least drafted) back-to-back, though I obviously managed to get that one finished and posted quite a bit earlier than this one. If you read both, you'll undoubtedly see similarities. (Both stories are entirely stand alone oneshots, for the record, taking place in entirely separate continuities.)

Brock's in a bar the first time he sees him, the guy who makes his heart skip an actual beat like something out of a terrible story Brock would never read.

Brock is sitting on a stool at one of those tall, round tables—dull, scratched paint a bit sticky from too many spilled drinks and not enough washing—with Jack, drinking whiskey and ignoring the fact that Jack is playing Candy Crush on his phone instead of trying to get a date like someone who isn't a total loser. At least Jack isn't playing Flappy Bird; if he was doing that again, Brock would have to take his phone and throw it behind the bar. The bartender would (probably) even understand.

Sometimes he wonders why he even drags Jack along with him, but then he remembers that people generally think guys who have at least one friend are less threatening or some junk. Like the fact that he's managed to get his coworker slash roommate to tolerate his company—if not exactly his conversation—is some sort of social accomplishment worthy of reward. But whatever; Jack can play his terrible cellphone games so long as he doesn't scare anyone hot away, but Brock's probably doing that himself with his scowl. Shit.

But then he sees the guy. Broad, muscular. A mess of shaggy brown hair hanging about his face as though he's never heard of a comb let along hair products. Hell, he probably just shakes it out after a shower like a dog. But he's walking across the room like he could kill everyone in it and then wipe the splattered blood off his face as though it's no more than a minor inconvenience, and Brock just _wants_ that. Not to kill everyone in the room. Well, not Jack or himself anyway. But he wants someone who looks like _that_ , someone with the cold confidence to strut through a crowd without the merest hint of apology or concern for anyone but himself.

Brock wants to possess that or be possessed by that—it really doesn't matter so long as he can attach himself to that. It's a newly discovered need, uncoiling hot and insistent in his gut.

He's out of his seat and putting his hand on the guy's arm saying, “Let me buy you a drink,” before his thoughts have caught up, but that's okay, because his body seems to be doing all right on its own.

Eyes turn to meet Brock's own, and they're twin chips of backlit blue ice, like shards of that magical stuff conjured by that hot blonde chick in the new Disney movie. It's the intensity of the gaze that makes Brock's breath hitch, but he keeps his hand on the other man's arm because damn it all if he's going to back down. Which turns out to be a tactically sound move, because the other man is nodding and allowing Brock to lead him to the bar and order him a— “Vodka.” It's the first word he says, and his voice isn't all that special, but it's running spidery sparks of energy across Brock's skin anyway.

Brock orders another whiskey for himself.

The problem with a shot of vodka is that it's over in the time it takes for deft fingers to grip the glass and bring it to sinfully-shaped lips, head thrown back and throat working far too briefly. And then the empty glass is back on the bar, and the man is turning unconcerned eyes on Brock again—and this guy isn't much for actual _talking_ is he?

Brock rolls his muscled shoulders, knowing they look good in his tight black t-shirt and swirling the whiskey in his glass so the ice spins in a lazy circle. “Can I buy you another one?”

The other man shrugs in response. “If you want.”

Tilting his lips up at one side, Brock quirks an eyebrow at him. “I could even get the bartender to mix it with orange juice or something and then we could talk while you drink it—or I guess I could get you a few shots, if that's the way you like it. I'm Brock, by the way.” He extends his hand.

“Barnes,” the other man says, accepting the handshake. And then he turns to the bartender and asks for cranberry juice of all things with the vodka, but so long as it means he'll sit with Brock and talk for a bit, Brock's not about to protest.

“So, 'Barnes',” Brock says as they take seats at the table where Jack is still trying to beat what looks like the exact same level of Candy Crush—one of the ones where the chocolate expands to eat the whole board. (Those levels suck.) “That sounds like a last name.”

Barnes takes a sip of his drink. “It is.”

Nodding, Brock says, “All right,” then turns, gesturing to Jack. “This is my friend Jack; we work together.”

Jack looks up from his phone to narrow his eyes slightly as his gaze moves from Brock to Barnes and back. “Yeah,” he confirms.

Brock tries for a warm smile as he enjoys the rare sight of Jack sitting up straight rather than hunching over his phone. “Jack, this is Barnes.”

“I heard,” Jack says then goes back to his game. Well, it was great while it lasted.

Some wingman Jack makes, though. Brock resists rolling his eyes and turns his attention back to Barnes. “So, do you have another name to go with the last name?”

“Most people do,” Barnes responds, a bit of unrepentant smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth.

And...is this going to be like Jack's last relationship? Control freak named 'Alexander' who wouldn't let even his boyfriend shorten it to something reasonable like 'Al' or 'Alex'. Guy was something like sixty-five and had gone mostly grey, but he owned at least five stupidly expensive cars and had an office bigger than the two-bedroom apartment Brock and Jack share, so he could pretty much do whatever he wanted—could pretty much _fuck_ whoever he wanted.

But, whatever, Brock is feeling a bit too warm and a bit less cautious from the alcohol, and right now he just wants to fuck Barnes. Figure out things like names and possible future relationships later. So he pitches his voice low, reaches across the table to put his hand on Barnes' wrist, and says, “Come back to my place.”

Jack's rolling his eyes without looking up from his phone, but Barnes is sliding off his stool, swallowing the last of his drink, and saying, “Okay,” with a bit of a crooked smile, and that's so much more important than anything else could possibly be.

o0o

Brock's phone buzzes to alert him of a text as he's hailing a cab. Barnes is leaning lazily against the brick wall of a building, watching Brock under heavy lids.

They slide into the cab, and Brock gives the driver the address then checks his phone. It's Jack:

_Have fun w stoic n terrifying. I'll stay at Justin's n see u at work tomorrow if u come in_

Justin's an ex-con they know through another of Jack's exes, a stupid little twink who calls himself 'Baby' as if it's an actual name and not a terribly generic pet name. Brock texts back:

_Try not t hit on baby u knowhow jealous Justin can get_

Not that Jack wouldn't win a fight against both Justin _and_ Baby even if they both had weapons and he was unarmed, but one of the neighbours would probably call the police and then Jack would expect Brock to come bail him out or some crap. And it's really _Baby_ who gets jealous; it would be better advice to tell Jack to avoid hitting on Justin. But hell, they can have a threesome for all Brock cares so long as he can enjoy his evening. Flicking off the screen on his phone, he grins at Barnes. “Just Jack, checking up on me.”

Barnes just nods, but it's obvious he doesn't really care. And why would he? Jack wasn't exactly anything resembling friendly back there.

o0o

Brock pays the cabbie and jumps out, pulling Barnes along after him and leading him up the stairs to his apartment door where he fumbles for his keys far longer than he'd like—the pleasant buzzing warmth under his skin is far less pleasant when it's acting as a cock-block. Brock makes a frustrated sound in his throat, and Barnes chuckles from where he's leaning lazily against the wall beside the door. Brock rolls his eyes at him. Like _he_ could do better.

As soon as he finally does get the door open, Brock grabs Barnes by the sleeve of his jacket—black leather, because of _course_ —and drags him inside, kicking the door shut behind them and shoving Barnes up against the wall to kiss him, rough and demanding.

Barnes doesn't say anything, doesn't even break the kiss, just growls deep in his throat and spins them around so that Brock's the one with his back pressed against the unyielding wall. And Barnes is equally unyielding, holding him there. And it's perfect. It's not often Brock can find someone who could hold him against a wall, even when he's somewhat tipsy—or downright sloshed for that matter. Just an unfortunate side effect of being bigger and buffer than the vast majority of the planet's sorry population.

Brock sucks in a breath as Barnes palms him roughly through his jeans. Damn. Nothing like making his intentions clear. Brock tries to say, “Bed,” like a suggestion—or even a demand—but it comes out more like a question. Not that it matters much either way, because Barnes makes a noise of agreement and lets Brock lead him into his tiny little bedroom—it honestly just has room for his bed and not much else. Flicking on the light with his elbow, Brock kicks the door shut.

Barnes seats himself on the edge of the bed, smirking up at Brock through his bangs. “Should I get undressed, or did you want to undress me?”

Brock just basically jumps on him, because he doesn't _care_. He just needs to touch, to feel, to find that warm skin where it's hiding under layers of pungent leather and soft cotton. “You're beautiful,” he breathes between sloppy kisses and mouthing hungrily at Barnes' neck, because he's kind of drunk and it's _true_.

o0o

Barnes shifts in the tangle of sheets, moving to press his face into Brock's still sweat-damp muscled chest and mumbling, “You're warm.”

Brock chuckles, running his fingers through Barnes' tangled hair. They really could both use a shower, though Brock's wiped most of the mess away with his t-shirt. “Most people are.” Pretty sure vampires are just fictional. Probably. Brock's never met one anyway.

Barnes hums against Brock's skin. It feels nice. Hell, everything feels nice in a sort of relaxed and, yeah, _warm_ way.

“I really would like something to call you other than 'Barnes',” Brock tries now, carefully teasing out a tangle in Barnes' hair.

He feels Barnes smile against his skin. “You could try one of those sappy things like, 'honey' or 'love' or 'baby'.”

Um, right. Despite his current snuggly mood, Barnes just doesn't seem nearly sweet enough to be called 'honey', and 'love' just feels a little... _completely insane_ for someone he's just met—Brock isn't British or whatever the people are who call random strangers 'love' all the time, apparently _even when they're not flirting_. And... “I know a guy who goes by 'Baby',” Brock admits, because it's not the only reason he would never call Barnes 'baby', but it's the main one. “One of Jack's exes.”

Barnes turns so his cheek rests against Brock's chest and he's looking at Brock's face. “My first name's 'James', but I don't like it.”

That's fair enough, obviously. Whatever Baby's real name is, he clearly doesn't like it either. Brock lets his hands continue to stroke idly through Barnes' hair. “What about 'Jim'?”

Barnes makes a face. “Too...Kirk.”

Brock laughs, low and deep. “Fair enough. How about 'Jamie', then?”

Barnes closes his eyes, blowing out a breath across Brock's skin. “Too 'Lannister'.”

Brock grins. “Bit of a nerd, are you?”

Barnes huffs, eyes still closed. “ _Everyone_ watches 'Game of Thrones,' Brock. Except, like, little kids and ultra-old people.”

And that's true. “Jack even reads the books.” Justin too, Brock thinks. Pretty sure he's heard them talking about junk like when whatever the next pretentiously titled book is gonna come out. (Hopefully before the author dies, apparently.)

Barnes smiles crookedly without opening his eyes. “That's pretty nerdy.”

“Yep,” Brock agrees. “Jack also watches all the Star Trek shows, even the prequel one with the useless Captain that falls down all the time.”

“I don't care what anyone says,” Barnes comments, opening his eyes so the bright blue of his pupils peeks out through narrow slits and furrowing his brow slightly, “Janeway's better than Archer. It's not even a contest.”

Brock frowns. “Janeway's the woman?”

“Yup.” Barnes closes his eyes again.

Brock shrugs. “You'd have to talk to Jack about it, because I have no idea; I've only seen a bit here and there when he had it on. But...” He twists his lips thoughtfully. “I mean, I never saw her fall on her ass, not even once, and the prequel dude does that every damn time I see him on the screen.”

Barnes grins, snorting a laugh. “Yep. Seems like you've seen enough to get the general idea of his character, anyway.” Then he adds in a quiet grumble, “Damn _useless_ , terrible leader—can't believe anyone would put him in charge of anything...can't even take care of his own damn dog.” He snorts, soft and disapproving. “Dog would make a better Captain.”

Brock will have to take Barnes' word for all of that. He's not overly interested in actually watching the stupid show. But they've gotten distracted, and he still needs something other than 'Barnes' to call the man who's currently using his impressive musculature as a very firm pillow. “What about 'Jay', then?” Barnes makes a questioning noise, brow furrowing. “For you, for what I can call you,” Brock clarifies.

Barnes shrugs slightly—probably as well as anyone could shrug while lying down and cuddling. “You can call me 'Jay' if you want.”

 _Finally_. Brock grins, because this is a win. Or at least, it feels like one, and that's kind of all that matters. But he can't help but ask, “Not 'too Leno'?”

“Nope,” Barnes says, relaxing against Brock as though he's preparing to fall asleep. “Don't watch Leno.”

“Neither do I,” Brock admits. And that's probably a good thing. “So...Jay.”

Jay blinks a bit at him. “Yeah?”

Brock grins, twisting his hands a bit in Jay's hair. “Just trying it out. You look sleepy.”

Jay hums his agreement then quirks an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes at Brock. “You don't mind—if I sleep here, do you?”

Brock lets out a dismissive snort. “Of course not. I invited you home with me—I'd have to be a pretty major asshole to kick you out now.”

Jay offers him a lopsided smile. “Am sleepy, though.”

“'S fine,” Brock assures him then yawns. “I mean, obviously I am too.” Shifting a little into a more comfortable position himself, he offers, “Don't run off in the morning, and I'll make you some breakfast.”

“You cook?” Jay quirks a somewhat incredulous eyebrow, eyes mostly closed.

Brock's shoulders twitch in a vague idea of a shrug. “I can make pancakes from the mix...scramble eggs...work a toaster and pour milk over cereal like a _pro_.” He can even, on occasion, make halfways decent instant oatmeal.

Jay snorts, grinning again. “Sounds like me.” Then his expression grows more calmly casual, and his voice is carefully unconcerned when he says, “Do I have to run off after you make me breakfast?”

“No.” Brock wraps his arms around Jay's shoulders, holding him close against him. “This was...good, right?”

“Yeah.” Jay smiles softly.

Brock lets out a breath he hadn't quite realized he'd been holding and tries to relax in a way that isn't totally obvious and pathetically desperate. “Good. So yeah. We should get each other's numbers—you know, do this again?”

Jay smiles sleepily. “'D like to do this tomorrow.” His smile grows broader, more wicked. “Before or after breakfast...or both. But yeah, numbers.” His lips twist wryly. “Numbers are good.”

o0o

“So, hey, congrats on the boyfriend,” Jack says as he walks into the kitchen at eight one morning.

Brock grunts in response as he takes a sip of black coffee. He and Jay have been dating for about a week and a half, but they haven't really talked about...much. They like each other's company, obviously. And as far as Brock knows, Jay isn't fucking anyone else—and Brock wouldn't want to know about it if he was. Maybe Jay _is_ his boyfriend. Does it count if you don't actually talk about it?

“Is that, like, a first for you?” Jack pulls a bowl from the cupboard and quirks an eyebrow at Brock. “In all the time I've known you, I've never seen you in a relationship.”

Brock grunts again, leaning against the counter and wrapping his fingers around the warmth of the mug. “I've had _girl_ friends before.” Technically, it was just one girlfriend...and that was back in high school, but Jack doesn't need to know any of that.

“Okay, so congrats on the big _gay_ milestone.” Jack grins as he digs in the silverware drawer for a spoon. Brock glares at him. It's not like Jack doesn't already know that Brock is _bi_ —since even though he might actually prefer men, he still likes women, and liking both is what bi _means_. Not everyone can be one-hundred percent homosexual like Jack. Ignoring the glare, Jack finally fishes a spoon out of the drawer and shoves it closed with his hip. “Barnes must be pretty special to hold _your_ interest for longer than one night.”

And maybe Brock is a little...less prone to commitment than some, but he's not about to take judgement from someone who's line of exes include insipid twinks like Baby and self-important assholes like Alexander fucking Pierce. He takes another sip of his coffee, levelling an unimpressed look in Jack's direction. “Have you _seen_ him? I mean, I get that your phone is nearly as riveting as one of your lame sci-fi shows, but I thought I saw you glance up at him _at least_ once.”

“Well,” Jack says, sighing unhappily as he digs in the cupboard, “however pretty he is, he ate all my Lucky Charms—or, you ate them and hoped I'd assume it was him, and that pretty much amounts to the same thing.”

Brock blows out a frustrated breath. “I'll buy you more—just eat my Frosted Flakes today.”

Pulling the box of Frosted Flakes from the cupboard, Jack flashes Brock a crooked, somewhat impressed smile. “You really _do_ like him.”

Rolling his eyes, Brock goes back to drinking his coffee. Of _course_ he likes Jay. He likes him better than anyone he's ever met. And it's not _entirely_ because of how Jay looks. Or even because of the way he carries himself (though that's pretty fucking sweet). Brock likes pretty much _everything_ about Jay—of the things he's discovered so far, anyway.

o0o

They've been together a month, and Brock realizes he's never seen Jay's place. And that's probably kind of weird? Jay's been over that Brock's apartment enough that even Jack's started calling him Jay—and Jay doesn't seem to mind—and now they spend too much time arguing over stupid things Brock doesn't care about like who's the best engineer across the armada of Star Trek shows and who usually 'tops' between the space station doctor and his grey-skinned alien boyfriend. (The one with the neck ridges.) Jack thinks the alien tops _all_ of the time, but for whatever reason, Jay seems to think the slender boyish doctor is more likely to be 'giving' at least most of the time. Brock would rather be fucking the Klingon with his richly deep voice and long barbarian hair, and he's not sure why it should matter who the characters are really fucking or _how_ —maybe that's more important if you actually pay attention to the plot, though.

What he'd _really_ rather be doing is fucking _Jay_ , but they kind of already did that right after Jay got there, and now they're both damp-haired and soap-fresh from the shower, on the couch with Jack, eating junk and talking over the show both Jack and Jay agree is the best of the Star Trek offerings despite not even being about a ship 'seeking out' anything or 'boldly going' anywhere.

But anyway, it's been a month. And Brock's trying not to worry that something's 'wrong', because it's not like he's ever _asked_ to go to Jay's place.

When the episode's over, Jack heads to bed, explaining he has to be up early for work.

Brock kind of has to be up early for work as well, so he's about ready to head to bed too. Turning to where Jay is slumped lazily against him he asks, “Can you stay over tonight?”

Sitting up and stretching a little, Jay shrugs. “Why wouldn't I be able to?” And it's not like it's the first time he's ever stayed over, but...

Brock shrugs as well, offering Jay a lopsided smile. “Just been wondering if maybe you've got a wife or something at home.”

Jay snorts. “Don't even have a 'home' much less anyone there.”

Brock frowns. Jay must sleep _somewhere_ the nights he's not in Brock's bed. And he doesn't smell like it's a cardboard box under a bridge, so...it must be a place _with a shower_. “Where _do_ you live?”

Jay stretches his neck from one side to the other. “Oh, I rent one of those trashy by-the-week hotel rooms.” And, okay, that certainly beats the cardboard box, but still: what the fuck?

Brock might be a bit commitment-shy himself, but at least he rents by the _month_. “Your room got one of those vibrating beds?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

Jay shakes his head. “Nothing that classy.”

“Hell,” Brock says as he stands up, “you might as well stay here with me, then—it'd save us both some money.” Jay does the same sort of work he and Jack do, just for a different boss, so the pay's gotta be reasonably comparable. He turns a frown on Jay. “No way your trashy hotel room has a real kitchen.”

“Just a half-broken microwave and one of those miniature fridges.” Standing up, Jay leans in and kisses his jaw. “Sure.” Pulling back a bit, he grins. “Staying here sounds good.”

o0o

Jack's a confused muddle of amused, annoyed, and impressed when he finds out two days later.

Brock dismisses all of his objections, because they're really pointless and unfounded. Jay already sleeps in Brock's room three to four nights out of a week, leaves damp towels on the floor, and eats all their sugary cereal. What will his officially 'moving in' even change? Maybe he'll actually buy some of his own food, which would be an improvement—not that _Jack_ has any room to complain, since Brock's been paying for everything Jay eats anyway. And he's pretty sure he's been paying for a sizable chunk of what Jack eats too.

“But you've known the guy a _month_ , and you're moving in together.” Jack shakes his head, standing a dripping plate in the drain-rack.

What would Jack know about it? Brock's pretty sure the only one Jack's ever moved in with is Brock himself, and that's something else entirely. Leaning against the counter, Brock folds his arms across his chest. “If he's a serial killer, I'm pretty sure the two of us could take him—and he probably would have killed me already.” He shrugs, arms still folded. “Or, you know, tried.” It's a bit of an unfounded boast, of course; that first night with Jack away and Brock tipsy, Jay probably could have done it. But after sex, he'd just wanted to snuggle. Like a big, fuzzy, sappy _teddy bear_. “Also, you _like_ him.”

Jack rolls his eyes as he dries his hands on a dishtowel. “Of course I like him—what's not to like?” He smirks. “I didn't realize you were looking for my blessing.”

Brock glares. “I wasn't.”

Flipping the towel over the handle on the oven door, Jack smirks again, a mocking glint in his eye. “You're responsible for feeding him and cleaning up after him—he's _your_ boyfriend, so he's _your_ responsibility.”

Brock shoves his shoulder into Jack's a little roughly. “Shut up.”

Jack just cackles at his own stupid humour, shoving back. “I expect you to be sure he has all his shots, too. And take him on regular walks—”

Brock shoves him harder. “Jack, I swear to _God_.”

“That's so _cute_ ,” Jack teases. “You're _blushing_!”

“Go straight to hell, Rollins.” Brock turns and walks away. He's pretty sure he's not _actually_ blushing. People can go a bit red when they're angry too, right?

o0o

It's a stupidly pretty spring day. The sun is out in that inoffensive, cheery spring way, sort of apologizing for being so distant these last few months and coyly pretending like it's not about to overstay its welcome for most of July and August—and probably half of September. The grass is green and damp in a bright, lush way and tickles Brock's nose with the fresh, rain-washed smell of earth and life. There are honest to God pink and white flowers in the trees. It's so sweet it's disgusting, and he's walking through the wretchedly romantic scene, holding hands with his boyfriend.

They're holding hands in public, and most other people in the park don't seem to even notice or care, so it's almost a disappointment. One young woman walking her dog did glare at them, so Brock just made a rude gesture with his other hand then leaned in to nibble at Jay's earlobe, earning him a hasty, furious retreat from the dog-walker and a half-annoyed punch in the ribs from Jay. A few minutes later, he caught a much older woman seated on a park bench with a paperback open in her hands smiling wistfully at them the way she probably smiled at sweet love story type movies. But other than those two, the reactions have either been non-existent or so understated Brock just didn't notice them.

As they round a corner, the stream comes into view—a lazy sort of creek, lined with cattails and home to the ducks people keep feeding despite the signs demanding that they stop. A happy little red bridge spans the stream in a smooth arch, allowing the footpath to continue to the other side. A red-haired man pushes a double stroller up the opposite side, earbuds in his ears. A woman in bright purple shorts and a grey hoodie jogs past, dodging the stroller-guy and a skinny kid with a sketchbook propped against the railing.

Brock assumed they were going to continue following the path as well, but Jay suddenly stills before they've quite reached the bridge, his grip on Brock's hand tightening. When Brock turns to look at him, Jay's face is pale—well, pal _er_. As if what little blood he usually had to colour his cheeks had drained away.

“Jay?” Brock tries. “You...okay?” It's a stupidly overused cliché, but Jay looks 'like he's seen a ghost.' When Jay gives no indication that he's heard Brock—or that he even realizes he's there—Brock tries again, a little louder, “Jay?” Jay still doesn't respond, so Brock takes him by the shoulder and gives him a rough shake.

Jay jerks as though waking up suddenly, turning to blink in confusion at Brock. “What?” He's still blinking, but his eyes finally focus on Brock's face. “Oh.” Ducking his head somewhat jerkily, he shakes it then looks back up, meeting Brock's eyes again. “Sorry. I just...” Turning away again, lost eyes scan the area. His body tenses as if readying to move quickly, but he stays still. “Where...?”

Jay needs to calm the fuck down—his breathing's all uneven to the point where he can't be getting sufficient oxygen. Maybe he's having a panic attack or something? Moving his hand to Jay's elbow, Brock suggests, “I think maybe you need to sit down.”

Jay shakes his head again. “No, I—I don't—” But he looks like he's about to throw up, and that's very much not the sort of attention Brock wants to draw to himself and his boyfriend—wouldn't it just be great if dog-walker bigot lady came back in time to see the gay guy throwing up just so she could stick her pointy little nose in the air while reflecting on how it served him right. (For the record, Brock doesn't know if Jay's gay or bi, but neither does dog-walker lady, and she's unlikely to believe bi people even exist.)

Brock sighs, rubbing Jay's arm through the fabric of his hoodie. “Let's just go home, okay? You're obviously not feeling well.”

Shoulders slumping, Jay nods his head, hair falling to obscure his face, and finally lets Brock lead him.

o0o

Jay sits on the couch and accepts the glass of water Brock hands him. He hasn't spoken for the short walk back to the apartment. Taking a sip of the water, he grimaces then sets the glass on the coffee table.

“Something wrong with the water?” Brock got it from the fridge, so it's pretty cold—generally, that seems to make water taste better. But he could get Jay juice or coffee or beer or something if he'd like that better. He just grabbed water, because that's what you're supposed to give people when things like this happen—he's pretty sure.

“That guy on the bridge,” Jay says as though he hasn't heard Brock's question, “I knew him.”

Frowning, Brock sits down next to Jay and twists his brows in a question. “Which guy?” Jay's eyes meet his, swirling with confusion. Maybe he didn't notice there was more than one guy. Brock shrugs. “There was the one guy with the stroller, and then there was the skinny artist kid—those were the only two guys I saw.”

“The, uh.” Jay's gaze drops and he grimaces as he picks at a thread on the ripped knee of his jeans. “The artist.”

“Okay.” Brock leans against the back of the couch. “So what are we talking about here? Childhood friend? Someone you used to bully? Long-lost brother? An ex?”

Jay swallows. “Yeah.” He's gripping one hand in the other in front of him, so tight it must hurt.

“'Yeah' to _which one_?” Brock demands, because, _way to be confusing_ , right?

Suddenly, Jay stands up. “I have to find him.”

“What? Now?” Brock stands up as well. What the hell? Jay always was a bit confusingly contradictory at times, a tiny bit unbalanced, maybe—but this stupid artist's just triggered all kinds of hell.

“I have to find him,” Jay repeats, as if that would explain a single solitary thing.

Brock moves to block his escape. “You're not going anywhere right now.” He makes his voice firm, fills it with command. “Sit down.”

Jay glares at him. “Move.”

Brock folds his arms, glaring back. “No.” Brock sees the blow coming and deflects it—though somewhat distantly he thinks that had Jay really meant for the blow to connect, it very likely would have. But he shoves Jay back roughly, and Jay stumbles a bit, sitting down heavily on the edge of the couch. Yeah, he's obviously not in any shape to go anywhere. Especially to go anywhere _alone_.

Jay glares up at him and growls, “I have to find him.” Brock slaps him. Not too hard, but hard enough that he's probably seeing stars. In a surge, Jay is on his feet once more, shoving Brock roughly to the side. He snarls, “Don't get in my way.”

But Brock isn't about to let this go, to let _Jay_ go. “Sit back down!” He grabs Jay by the arm, grip punishing. “You're not going anywhere.”

Turning smoothly in a motion that's nearly as terrifying as it is beautiful, Jay punches Brock in the stomach hard enough that he doubles over, gasping for breath.

The slam of the door echos in Brock's ears before he can figure out how to stand up straight again, much less follow.

It's a mercy—perhaps a small one, but a mercy—that Jack is at work and not home to witness any of this.

o0o

It's three days later—well, a little more, since it's about two am, and Brock's just getting home after working some mind-numbing overtime—when Brock sees Jay again. He's sitting on the couch, hair dripping onto the damp shoulders of his t-shirt—presumably wet from the icy rain Brock just ran through after the cab dropped him off. The light's off in Jack's room and the door's closed, so if he's home, he's probably asleep.

Pulling off his jacket, Brock drops it in a heap on the floor as he kicks off his shoes then walks over to where Jay is sitting. “Jay,” he says cautiously.

Jay's eyes skip up to Brock's face, wide and lost and rimmed with red. “I couldn't find him.” He's shaking, shivering. With a frustrated sound, Brock turns up the thermostat and grabs Jay a towel from the hall closet.

But Jay just takes the towel, holding it in his lap as though he doesn't know what to do with it, so Brock kneels down next to him and rubs it through his hair, squeezing the ends until most of the water is in the towel, then helps him strip off his shirt and wraps the towel around Jay's shoulders instead. “Feel better?”

Jay makes a rough, helpless sound, reaching and saying, “Brock.” So Brock goes without objection into Jay's lap and lets Jay wrap his strong arms around him and press his face into the slightly scratchy grey material of Brock's uniform shirt. He stays like that for a few deep, shaky breaths, then pulls back, looking up at Brock. He swallows. “I hurt you.” And it's not even clear if he means hitting him or just leaving like that for three days with no word, but it's kind of all one and the same.

“Sweetheart,” Brock murmurs, pressing a row of warm kisses along Jay's chilled, thickly-stubbled jaw, “I'm fine now.”

Grabbing the back of Brock's neck, Jay shoves their mouths together, sucking greedily on Brock's lower lip, other hand shaky as it slides down his back to tug the hem of his shirt out of his uniform pants and find warm skin. Their groans blend together—and it's only been three fucking days, but it feels like it's been _forever_. “Please,” Jay whispers, breath warm where it puffs against Brock's neck, and from the insistent hardness jutting up where their bodies are pressed together, it's pretty clear what he's asking for.

Brock unzips Jay's jeans, reaching inside. “I've got you; I'll take care of you.” Making a little needy sound, Jay presses his lips together, hips jerking upwards into Brock's grip.

o0o

“I got fired,” Jay grumbles the next morning. He's on his side in their bed, checking the messages on his phone.

“Sorry to hear that,” Brock says, running his hand up and down Jay's side. But, that's what happens when you don't come in or even call in for three days. He presses a kiss to Jay's shoulder. “Want me to see if I can get you a job where Jack and I work?”

Jay grunts, shaking his head. “Nah, I'll find something.” Maybe he doesn't want to work with his boyfriend and their roommate, which is fair enough. Turning over, he presses a kiss to Brock's jaw. “I've got a bit of money saved up right now, so I'll still be able to pay rent.” Not that Brock's worried at all; he and Jack had been handling rent fine before Jay moved in. Rolling back over and sliding out of bed, Jay asks, “Want me to make you breakfast?”

Brock shoots him a crooked smile. “What, you gonna put some cereal in a bowl and pour milk over it?”

Jay chuckles softly, reaching over to ruffle Brock's hair. “I was thinking pancakes maybe?”

Brock grimaces—pancakes sound wonderful, but, “We're out of syrup.”

Turning back to face him, Jay twists his brows incredulously. “How d'you run out of syrup?”

Like anything, it runs out eventually, but it does take a while. Usually. Rolling into a sitting position, Brock rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. “Jack's got a sweet tooth.” He shrugs. “But I was gonna pick some more up...” The next time he goes shopping. Whenever that is.

“Well,” Jay says, offering Brock a hopeful, gently mocking smile, “I can do toast if you're not _also_ out of both butter _and_ peanut butter.”

Brock grins up at him. He's pretty sure they're not out of either unless Jack had a bit of a midnight feast. Before two or after three am, because between about two and three, Jay and Brock were doing things on the couch that would have made Jack yell about inconsiderate roommates if he'd gotten up. “Toast sounds good.”

o0o

And everything's fine again, if a little quieter. And maybe their smiles are a little more strained, but Jay is _there_ and Jay still wants to kiss and cuddle—and fuck—just like before, so it's _fine_. Jack doesn't even mention it, but then Brock didn't exactly tell him any of the details. Or talk to him about it at all. (Sure as hell didn't show him the bruise on his stomach.) He probably knows they fought, though. He's not totally dense.

So Brock kisses Jay goodbye when he heads to work one morning, and when he comes back to an empty apartment that evening, he doesn't think much of it. Jay was going to spend the day looking for work, and Jack's shift won't end for another hour, so it's not strange for the apartment to be deserted.

But four hours later when Jack's home, curled up on the couch re-watching 'Game of Thrones' while slowly sipping his second beer and Jay's still not back, Brock's starting to get a bit worried. He sends Jay a text asking what's up, but gets no reply. He sends another when he's in bed, before he falls asleep:

_You coming home?_

When he wakes up in the morning, there's no reply.

When he's done work for the day, there's still no reply.

If he's not dead or in a coma, fuck him. Seriously, fuck him repeatedly with a chainsaw. Brock doesn't need this shit. Doesn't need to be constantly wondering if he'll ever see his boyfriend again. If he even has a boyfriend anymore, or if he should just go back to the bars and pick someone else up. Or maybe go online. Maybe make a trashy Grindr profile with a headless torso pic and fuck his way through all the guys in the general area. It could very well be what Jay's doing, after all.

Two days later, he finally gets a text from Jay, who has apparently ignored every single one of Brock's messages asking him where he was, if he was all right, and if he'd ever see him again. It just says:

_I found him._

And then, before Brock even has time to begin to process the first text, a second appears:

_I never meant to hurt you, but I never thought I'd see him again._

Yeah, well, it still hurts, regardless of what the asshole _meant_. Brock squeezes his phone until the edge bites painfully into his hand. He wants to text back, to say he's glad to know Jay's not dead—because he really is; he's so fucking relieved he kind of wants to cry—but what he sends is:

_Fuck you too, Jay._

He doesn't get a response.

o0o

Brock does make a Grindr profile but doesn't bother to actually use it. He doesn't feel like going anywhere or seeing anyone. It's bad enough to have to interact with people for work and Jack when they're both home.

Jack has some idea that interacting with people would be a good thing, and tries to talk Brock into coming to a party at Justin's. As if Brock would _ever_ want to go to a party at Justin's. Free booze is free booze, but Justin's still Justin. And he's a hell of a lot worse when he's drunk.

A week later, Jack invites Justin and Baby over for beers and pizza and watching some nerdy thing Brock doesn't care to know about—he stays in his room with the door closed until they're gone.

o0o

“I got an invite to Bucky's wedding,” Jack tells him as he's sorting through their mail one afternoon. “He's marrying that Steve guy, his old friend—ex—whatever.”

Brock looks up from the mind-numbing game he's playing on his phone. He's on the couch, still wearing his work uniform, and it itches a bit across his shoulders and at his lower back when he moves. “Who the hell is 'Bucky'?”

“Jay,” Jack explains. “He goes by 'Bucky' now.” He tilts his head to one side, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Or, _again_ , I guess. It was his nickname growing up.”

 _Bucky_. Brock rolls his eyes. That's a stupid name—if it even counts as a 'name'. Doesn't seem to suit him. Like, at _all_. (But of course Jack's still in contact with his nerd buddy. The fucking _traitor_.) And...Brock shudders a bit as he bends his head back over his cellphone, eyes not focusing on the garish cartoon graphics. He was _Jay_ , back when he was his.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Jack' here is Jack Rollins, STRIKE teammate of Brock Rumlow in 'Captain America: The Winter Soldier'.  
> 'Justin' here is Justin Hammer from 'Iron Man 2'.  
> 'Baby' is Justin Hammer's boyfriend seen in the Marvel One-Shot, “All Hail the King,” where he is only identified as “baby”.


End file.
